“Not a patch on Cindy, but yeah, not bad.”
This time Brian didn't step back and Doug landed a sharp knuckle blow on Brian's other arm causing him to cry out in pain.
“Shit Doug. That one really hurt! ...Guess I deserved it though,” he added.
“Too right!”
“Listen if I get another round, will you stop thumping me?”
“I'll certainly thump you if you don't buy another round!” offered Doug.
They each drained their remaining beers and Brian headed for the bar with the four empty glasses. Looking over his shoulder, he called back in his best comic Arctic explorer voice, “I may be some time!”
Doug grinned. You could always rely on Brian to cheer you up. It had something to do the way his slight Cockney accent always seemed at odds with his often verbose choice of words. That combined with a razor sharp intellect and a rather black sense of humour always made him good company.
After a few minutes Brian reappeared with Taff, Jock and Mike from the rugby club. “Found these reprobates loitering at the bar!” he said.
Jock, the bullet-headed prop-forward from Glasgow slapped Doug on the back of the head, causing the cigarette to fly from his mouth. “How's yer head?” he asked jovially.
“It was okay before you did that, you big tartan buffoon!”
“You should have seen him at the bar after the match on Wednesday,” said Mike, the slim and slightly weasely looking winger from Yorkshire. “That police tight-head...”
“The one I accidentally elbowed in the eye!” interjected Brian, proudly.
“Yeah him, anyway he starts like making fun of Jock's accent!”
“Ooh shit!” said Doug. “You didn't start a fight with a copper did you?”
“I just gave the fat bastard a wee push!” said Jock.
“Yeah, a wee push that sent him crashing across two tables full of glasses,” added Taff.
“No way, then what happened?” asked Doug.
“Then I got on with my pint,” replied Jock, “and the pig never bothered me again.”
“Yeah, well that might have had something to do with his team mates holding him back, and suggesting that hospitalising a student half his age might not be the best course of action for a policeman to follow,” added Brian. They all laughed. Three more pints and several colourful reminiscences later, the five staggered noisily off in search of curry.
As they made their way up the High Street, Doug paused for a moment to roll another cigarette. Removing the pouch of tobacco from his jacket pocket, he peered through the large etched glass window of the wine bar, outside which he was standing. There, seated in a booth at the back, dressed in a red evening gown and sipping what appeared to be champagne was Cindy.
“Hey guys, I'll catch you up later!” he shouted after the others.
Returning the pouch to his pocket, he walked inside. Cindy, now fiddling with her mobile phone, failed to see him enter. He had reached about half way across the room, and was just about to call out to her, when a short wiry man dressed in a black, expensive-looking designer suit, and sporting a goatee and ponytail, sat down in the chair opposite her.
Doug froze. It was the same man he'd seen talking to Kal at the party - the Russian sounding guy of whom Bullock had produced a photo. What did he say the name was? Markov - that was it. He considered continuing over anyway, and introducing himself, but as he watched Cindy, he noticed a tension develop in her face. Was it fear? Not exactly, but she didn't look comfortable either. He wondered whether this was the donor of her black eye, now seated across the table from her.
“Can I help you, sir?” asked a voice beside him.
Doug turned around quickly to hide his face from Cindy and the Russian, and addressed the waiter who was eyeing him rather suspiciously. “No, I think I'll just have a drink at the bar thanks.”
Doug positioned himself on a stool at the end of the counter, so the side partition of the booth hid him from Cindy, but gave an oblique view of Markov. He picked up the menu card and ordered the cheapest bottled beer he could find. “So much for happy hour,” he muttered to himself. In a rack on the wall beside him was a copy of the Times, which he opened for extra camouflage. Pretending to read an article on the edge of the page, he studied Markov. The man had deep-set dark eyes and pointed features. His skin, pallid, almost to the point of translucence, seemed stretched so tightly over his skull, it put Doug in mind of some grotesque shrink-wrapped vegetable. There were dark shadows around the eyes and under the cheekbones, and the corners of his mouth were drawn back into a tight-lipped sneer. As he sipped some colourless liquid from a shot glass, the man turned and scanned the other faces in the bar. His movements bore the jerky precision of a highly strung greyhound and hinted of concealed power. He tried to pick up on the conversation, but the acoustics in the wine bar were terrible. Any of the sound not drowned out by the echoing ambient clatter of the other customers, was absorbed by the booth. Of the occasional syllables to reach him, Doug could make no sense. He removed the pointless wedge of lime from the neck of his Mexican beer and drained its tasteless contents in one gulp. He ordered another and started to flick through the newspaper for something of interest. This could prove an expensive and ultimately futile exercise, he realised.
As he swigged at the fourth beer, trying to determine what to do next, Markov slammed his glass onto the table and shouted something in Russian. He then heard Cindy gabble something back in what sounded like the perfect Russian retort. The man huffed and turned to leave. Cindy spouted something else and emerged from the booth looking angry. Doug quickly held up the Times, while downing the remainder of the beer. He heard the door of the wine bar open and close, looking around the paper just in time to see them walk away up the High Street. For a couple more minutes, he remained seated, rolling a cigarette, then followed. By the time he stepped onto the pavement, they were already two hundred yards ahead and walking fast, the Russian holding Cindy by the wrist and apparently pulling her along against her will. Doug started to follow, gradually quickening his pace. He stopped for a second to light a cigarette.
“No, Stop!” he heard Cindy cry. The Russian let go of her wrist and started gesticulating wildly. Cindy was pointing her finger at him with a jabbing motion. Doug had no idea what they were arguing about, but it was clearly getting heated. He continued walking towards them. The Russian pulled a mobile from his jacket pocket and held it to his ear. He looked around briefly as though trying to get his bearings, said something into the phone and returned it to his pocket. He then looked at Cindy and slapped her across the face.
Doug felt his blood boil. “Oy, you!” he shouted, running towards them.
They turned to stare at the figure approaching up the hill, recognition dawning on their faces as he neared.
“Didn't anyone ever tell you never to hit a woman?” he panted, now only twenty yards away.
“Doug, no!” shouted Cindy, looking worried.
“Anyone ever tell you to mind own business?” the Russian said coldly with a thick accent.
“Cindy, what are you doing with this Russian prick? Is he the one who gave you that black eye?”
“Doug, Don't. I can handle it. Please go away!” pleaded Cindy.
“You should take her advice young man, or I give you worse than black eye,” said Markov.
“Oh yeah, you and whose army?” replied Doug, filling with Dutch courage. Although the Russian was probably quite powerful, Doug had at least six inches and forty pounds on him, and reckoned he could take him, if it came to it. Markov started calmly walking towards him, removing a metallic object from his trouser pocket and slipping it onto his knuckles.
“Sergei, No!” cried Cindy again.
Doug lunged at him, but in one fast and fluid motion, the Russian stepped deftly aside and drove his fist impossibly hard into Doug's right kidney sending him spinning around, almost losing balance. The next blow smashed into his left cheekbone with the power of a sledgehammer, e
mitting an audible crack, the brass knuckles glinting in the light of the street lamp as they receded. Doug hit the pavement and felt the flow of warm blood on his cheek. Looking up, he saw the Russian crouch over him, fist raised, and the fire of sadistic pleasure burning in his eyes. At that moment a small black object swung into view, smacking the Russian on the side of the head and sending him wheeling sideways, cursing loudly as he went. The weapon, which had made a surprisingly loud thud on impact, turned out to be Cindy’s (evidently weighted) handbag, which she now wielded defensively, ready once to be more swung into action, if required. “Just leave him alone,” she pleaded.
Doug started to pick himself up, touching his cheek gingerly with the tips of his fingers and wincing. Markov sprang to his feet, felt the side of his head and then turned his attention to Cindy.
“You gonna pay for that, bitch!” he said, stepping towards her and clenching his fist again.
“If anyone's goin'ae pay, it'll be you, ya skinny little bastard,” came a familiar Glaswegian accent from behind. It was Jock, closely followed by Brian, Taff and Mike. “If you don't get yer ugly little head out'ae here pronto, I'm goin'ae rip it off and shit down ye neck!” he continued.
“And you don't want an angry Scotsman with bowels full of curry and lager to be shitting anywhere near you, believe me,” added Brian, helpfully.
The Russian stood his ground as though seriously considering whether to take on the five young rugby players single-handedly, when a black Range Rover with tinted windows screeched to a halt at the curb-side. The front doors opened and two very large, bearded men lumbered out, wearing dark trousers and matching black bomber jackets. One of them reached inside his jacket, but Markov shook his head, and the man dropped his hand back to his side. Markov glared once more at Cindy and the students, and let himself into the back seat of the Range Rover. The other two got into the front and the vehicle sped away. Cindy rushed over to Doug, who was beginning to sway with dizziness, and put her arm around him for support. “Here, hold this against your cheek,“ she said, producing a white handkerchief from her bag.
“I think he broke my face,” said Doug dabbing it softly against the gash and then staring, bewildered at the quantity of blood. The others looked on in silent shock.
“Guys, this is shindy!” slurred Doug, rubbing his right kidney and feeling faint. “Shindy - this is...this is...” He then passed out.
“Guys!” said Cindy, just catching him under the arms as he fell and gently easing him down onto the pavement. “Stay with him while I get my car,” she said. “It's just round the corner.”
“Shouldn't we call an ambulance?” asked Taff.
“No, my car will be faster!” she replied, then sprinted off while Brian put his hand under Doug's head for support, and applied the handkerchief to his cheek.
“What a babe!” said Mike watching Cindy's athletic form turn the corner.
“Aye, she's a bonnie lass!” agreed Jock.
“And a whole lot of trouble,” added Brian
“Aren't they all?” said Taff.
About a minute later came the deep throaty roar of a high performance engine, and a gleaming silver Porsche appeared at the top of the street. Rounding the corner like a Formula One race car, it accelerated towards them. The students gaped in awe as it braked hard, coming to sudden but controlled stop three feet from Doug's head. Cindy leapt out, ran round and pulled open the passenger door. She bent down and touched a button at the base of the seat. The red leather started to slide silently backwards, reclining as it went.
“Sweet!” said Mike.
The others lifted Doug's limp body into the car, buckled the seat belt and shut the door.
“I'm taking him to Colchester General.” she said, opening the driver’s side.
“Is there anything I need to tell the Doctor – drugs? Allergies? Reactions to Penicillin?”
“He was knocked unconscious during the match last Wednesday,” said Brian. “But they should already have that on their records, since he was taken there after it happened. Other than that, not that I'm aware of.”
She nimbly swung herself into the driver’s seat, gunned the ignition, and with another deep throbbing roar, they were gone.
“Another pint anyone?” asked Mike.
CHAPTER 7
It was 10:30 when the clatter of rain against window finally wrenched Peter from the depths of sleep. He drowsily donned his dressing gown and staggered downstairs. In the kitchen, Isabelle was staring out at the dark clouds, which hung menacingly over the landscape.
“You know, until I moved to England, I had no idea there were quite so many shades of grey,” she said, matter-of-factly, without turning.
“Yes, I'm afraid that's the price we pay for such a green and pleasant land.”
She gave a little laugh. “I was hoping to make the garden a little greener and more pleasant today. Don't think I want to any more though.”
Peter poured himself a mug of coffee from a jug on the Aga. “Would you like one?” he asked her.
Isabelle looked over her shoulder and shook her head. “There is something you could do for me though - if it's not too much trouble.”
“Of course - anything.”
“I wanted to order some plants over the Internet, but I can't find the details of the nursery we use. Martin used to do all those things so I think the address must be in his email somewhere. Do you think you could take a look for me - help me get their website up so I can choose what I want and place the order?”
“Of course, no problem. Can you remember when you last used them?”
“It would have been last Autumn, probably in October, I think.”
Knowing Martin’s aversion to the medium, Peter hadn't yet bothered to check his brother's email. “Let's see who you've been emailing,” he muttered under his breath. Opening Outlook, he gave a little laugh and frowned. There were over a thousand mails in the inbox. Martin had clearly made no attempt to organise the correspondence into folders and whatever anti-spam measures might have been in place were failing miserably. Peter ran a search and quickly found some electronic receipts from “Lakeland Nurseries”, dating from October last year. He printed one to show to Isabelle and continued browsing. Partly out of habit, he continued through methodically, deleting all the obvious spam. Most of what remained were commercial email blasts from theatre, music and travel companies, some newsletters and a handful of notifications from various online purchasing sprees. Scattered amongst the commercial junk were only a handful of personal mails. Peter recognised some of the names from Martin's circle of friends and fellow musicians. Some were jokes, others contained details of rehearsals and concert schedules. As he scrolled through, his eye was drawn to a series of messages with the subject “Your paper on the evolution of Mandelbrot sets”. On closer inspection, he realised they were all from the same sender – Kal Gupta. Peter began reading the thread from the bottom.
Dear Mr. Gupta,
I came across your paper “Evolution of Mandelbrot sets” on the Internet and would very much like to discuss it with you.
In particular it was your description of the curious hypnotic effect induced by the shifting fractal patterns which caught my attention. I have recently created some short audio passages which induce what would seem to be a very similar effect. I was therefore wondering whether we might share our work to date, and perhaps even collaborate on producing some sort of combined audio-visual experience.
I must warn you now that I am neither a mathematician nor a computer wizard and was therefore unable to follow all the technical explanations in your paper. As a professional musician however, I do understand sound! Hopefully, this is the area where I can add some value.
Yours faithfully
Martin Sawyer.
Hi Martin,
Thanks for your email and for the interest in my paper – I think you may be the only one who read it:-) Yes, I'd love to collaborate. By the way, my pet name for the project is Dream-Zone.
There is a folder called DZ on a server here at the university where I keep stuff relating to the project. I've now created you a login so you can access it directly.
Your login name is “Maestro” and your password is “1stviolin” -yeah I Googled you. You're famous, Man:-)
So just click on the attached link and enter the above id and password to get in. You won't be able to delete anything, but you can download the latest graphics generator programmes as well as upload your own stuff. Have fun with the graphics and let me know when you've uploaded something. I can't wait to hear it!
Cheers
Kal.
Dear Kal,
Thank you for the link and for so readily granting me access to your work. I have run the graphics programme files, and as you will see for yourself, the effect is indeed very similar to that produced by my audio passages. I also like the name Dream-Zone by the way! Very apt.
I have uploaded three of my latest compositions. The biggest one produces the strongest effect for me, but I'd be interested in seeing whether it's the same for you.
I'm now experimenting with combining both audio and visual components, but I can't seem to get the synchronisation right. I keep getting hints of something quite extraordinary, but so far, the combined effect seems to wax and wane in intensity. I'll keep working on it.
Regards
Martin.
Hi Martin,
Your audio is brilliant and you're right, I reckon they must both be stimulating the same parts of the brain, since the effect is so similar. Maybe we should invite someone with a background in Neuroscience to take a look and see what they think. I've also tried playing the audio and visual simultaneously, but as you say, it doesn't seem to quite work.
Cheers Kal.
Dear Kal,
Although I don't have the computing ability to create a combo file which I can send you, I HAVE managed to recreate the effect we've been after!!!
It's incredible! I've been playing it over and over and it feels like it's somehow changing me. I can't describe it. What you have to do, is adjust the synchronisation by slowing down the audio in certain parts. My synthesizer software lets me do this manually, but I can't seem to record the result. If you listen to the audio though, you'll hear certain rhythmic beats. These have to coincide with the full-screen colour shifts in your graphics. If you can't manage to recreate it at your end, I'll try to make an old-fashioned tape and post it to you.
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